Thousands and thousands of colors paint the bosom of the earth so gaily.

Gather the roses of life today.

My guitar, I sing of thee 'Tis with thee that I decoy And ensnare enchantingly the ladies I enjoy.

Gather, gather your youth: Just like this flower, old age Your beauty will wither.

Thousands and thousands of colors paint the bosom of the earth so gaily.

When you are old, at evening candlelit, Beside the fire bending to your wool, Read out my verse and murmur, "Ronsard writ This praise for me when I was beautiful.

When you are very old, and sit in the candle - light at evening spinning by the fire, you will say, as you murmur my verses, a wonder in your eyes, 'Ronsard sang of me in the days when I was fair.